


Should've Done You Just the Same

by crushcandles



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Daddy Kink, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, F/M, Humiliation, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Praise Kink, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-07 22:42:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21225434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crushcandles/pseuds/crushcandles
Summary: Arthur comes over, still unhurried. He stands beside John, looking down at the fire. He’s got one thumb still tucked in, but the hand nearest John is hanging loose, nice and easy."Wewere," he tells the fire, "until some good-for-nothin' brat walked in."There’s something there, a thin tickle, a piece of bait on a string. John doesn’t look up. In the bottom corner of his vision, Arthur’s boots shift.





	Should've Done You Just the Same

**Author's Note:**

> I didn’t think I had it in me to write video game fic. Bless you and curse you, Arthur “Tough to be Tender” Morgan. Pre-_RDR2_. Title from [Lonely Boy](https://youtu.be/-16-kDCm9IQ) by The Black Keys.

"Oh, shit," John says, backing up so fast he knocks into the door frame and bounces. He almost hits the floor, stumbling unsteady like a rough landing on a moving train car. But years of rough landings keep him on his feet.

"Fuckin’ hell!" Arthur groans from the bed where he's on his knees. The widow Newbury, also on the bed, also on her knees, screams. Her voice is throaty from use, not that John heard her before he opened the door, which would have been real helpful. 

"Shit," John says again, useless. His eyes move over the scene: Mrs. Joan Newbury on her hands and knees, simple skirt bunched up on her back, the soft white backs of her thighs pressed to the rough fronts of Arthur's. Arthur, kneeling tall, pants down just enough for the important stuff, broad hands holding Mrs. Newbury still for the fuck he was just giving her. The sun, shining full into the room and the far bleats of the sheep John and Arthur are meant to be tending filtering in the open window.

"Boy," Arthur growls, voice rougher than usual. He's not moving anymore, not how he was when John opened the door. He's pressed too tightly to Mrs. Newbury for John to see anything between them now. 

"Shit," John says for the third time, but this time he backs up away from Arthur's withering glare and Mrs. Newbury's panic, scraping his shoulder on the wall as he goes, leaving a weak _Sorry, sorry_ in the room as he closes the door.

He has to turn at the top of the stairs so he doesn't fall and brain himself. Behind the closed door he can hear voices _now_, one rising in upset, one going low to soothe.

*

John's been called a coward plenty of times. A bunch of those times he's deserved it. He doesn't think this time counts though, him coming out the door too quick, face hotter than the sunshine, landing in the saddle of his stolen horse before he can think it over. There's being a coward, and then there are the times when you should just be grateful you keep a bedroll with your horse. 

Arthur's horse, stolen from the same place John's was, watches him take off down the hill, riding away from Mrs. Newbury's big, nearly empty ranch house and the herd of sheep she’s willing to pay for some help with. Her eyes are big and watchful, but dumb. Horses can't call people cowards, thank Christ. 

There's a fork in the road; one branch goes off to where the sheep have been grazing, where they would be going, if John had gotten Arthur's help. The other, less used, leads to a dense forest, where the sheep aren't meant to go. John peels off in that direction. 

The road's a little lumpy; the horse doesn't have a problem with it, but John keeps his eyes down, focusing so he's not thinking about Mrs. Newbury's pinched-up face, Arthur's satisfied sounds, so close to the end. 

The woods are dark, the trail tight. In order to make it through, John has to concentrate, the only blessing he’s gotten all day.

*

It was a matter of time, so John doesn't bother reaching for his gun, standing, or even taking his stick out of the fire when he starts hearing hoofbeats and rustling branches. It took longer than he thought it might though. It’s dark now, some of the stars out. 

He listens to Arthur talking softly to his horse and John's as he hitches up to the lightning-struck tree John is using as a post. Arthur will shoot a horse to kill a man, but he's good to them when he's got them, says a kind word makes 'em sweet and it costs so little. 

John prods an errant coal with his stick, poking it back home. Arthur comes out of the trees slowly even though he wasn't trying to be stealthy. Not that it matters. John's not even wearing his holster. He and Arthur are the two worst people in this whole county, and they're just here to make some money before the gang moves on. If a widowed rancher's wife is willing to pay a couple of brothers to help out on her land for a few weeks, then good. It's easy work, perfectly legal. John can be Timothy Hutton in his sheep-scented sleep.

Arthur takes in John's fire, the log John pulled over to sit on, his bedroll flat on the grass, and says, "Hidin' out? You don’t gotta." He sticks his thumb in his waistband, hip cocked. He has his leather riding gloves on, but no coat. He’s not planning on staying.

"Figured the lady might like to collect herself, after a scare like that." John doesn't leave the coals alone. The tip of his stick is glowing. He scrapes it through the dirt to keep it from lighting up. 

Arthur snorts like a horse. "Seein' your face _will_ wreck a person's day."

John rolls his eyes. "You were both obviously havin' a great day before I opened the door."

Arthur comes over, still unhurried. He stands beside John, looking down at the fire. He’s got one thumb still tucked in, but the hand nearest John is hanging loose, nice and easy. 

"We _were_," he tells the fire, "until some good-for-nothin' brat walked in."

There’s something there, a thin tickle, a piece of bait on a string. John doesn’t look up. In the bottom corner of his vision, Arthur’s boots shift. 

“Didn’t stay long,” John says, carefully even.

“No,” Arthur replies. He puts his hand on John’s shoulder, leather knuckles warm and strong through John’s shirt.

John takes a deep breath, mostly to feel how his body moves under Arthur’s heavy hand. His armpits and thighs feel a little hot. Not from the fire.

“Hardly even saw anything,” he says, which is true. It was so fast he’s not even sure he saw Arthur’s cock on an in-stroke or if he just imagined it; bare thighs and pleasure faces aren’t much in the grand scheme of shit John’s seen.

Arthur squeezes his shoulder, too tight to be friendly. “More’n you were supposed to see.”

“Mmm.” John can concede that. He and Arthur aren’t honest men, but the Hutton brothers are, and they’re doing honest work for a good, honest woman. John didn’t mean to see anything, wouldn’t want to embarrass Mrs. Newbury like that. 

Still, he says, “Well, it musta worked out just fine for you after I left. Took you until dark to make your way here.”

Arthur chuckles, sly and warm. His hand moves, sliding to the back of John’s neck. His thumb presses under the loose collar of John’s shirt.

“You jealous?”

John pulls a face at the fire. “No.”

Another squeeze. “No? You sound jealous.”

John swirls his stick in the dirt, scoffing, "What's to be jealous of?"

Arthur carelessly brushes John's hair away from the nape of his neck. John has to quell his shiver even though it's not cold out and Arthur's fingers are warm. 

It takes Arthur a moment to answer. John can almost see the string wiggling. He looks up anyway, catching Arthur's glance down. The firelight catches on Arthur's stubble, his white teeth, his smug eyes.

"Me?" he suggests. Then, after a heavy pause: "her?"

John was mostly expecting it, but it still makes shame prickle along his neck under Arthur's fingers.

"Fuck off," he says, biting.

Arthur pinches his neck before the second _f_ is out of his mouth. 

"Boy," he says, low, and if Arthur didn't have his burning neck held tight, John's head would drop. He sags a little though, one knee flexing. Arthur adjusts his grip, holding John’s scruff securely, the way you do to a pup. He uses the grip as a lever-point, swinging around in front of John. John watches Arthur’s boots come between his. His knees open naturally to make space for Arthur.

John can hardly tilt his head back since Arthur’s got him held so tight, but he can see a little of Arthur’s face looking down on him, stern. John’s starting to feel like he’s sitting in the fire instead of in front of it. His cock is getting hard in his pants. Arthur’s getting hard too. With him standing in front of the fire there’s not as much light, but John doesn’t need any light at all to recognize Arthur’s cock. He knows the shape of it in Arthur's jeans, bare, in his hands or his mouth.

Arthur's not wearing his gunbelt either, which is strange. Arthur's as trusting as a feral dog, doesn't care if John's right and they're the only trouble for miles. He's not been packing on Mrs. Newbury's ranch, but John would bet he could have a gun in hand in a blink if the need came up.

John can't keep looking, thinking about what the missing gunbelt means, because Arthur's tipping his face up. He can see Arthur's face better, now that Arthur's letting him. Arthur's halfway sneering.

"I ain't get to finish," he says, "earlier. After you skedaddled, Mrs. Newbury bucked me off like a horse. Had to set her to rights, calm her down."

John should know better than to be mouthy, but he's into it now. "You can't use your dick for that?"

That earns him a shake, like he really is a dog caught by the scruff. Arthur puts his thumb back into John's neck, gives him the scrape of the seam of his glove. John's cock pulses in his pants.

"Quit foolin’ around," Arthur orders him, in a voice that suggests he's caught John sloughing off at camp or teasing one of the girls too rough. It catches John, twists up his impulses. He doesn't know if he should sit up straight or go limp. He’s not a kid, but Arthur can make him feel like one, easy. The voice, the hand on his neck, Arthur's broad, hard jaw.

Arthur's hand, the one not holding John's neck, comes to the button and zip on Arthur's jeans, working. Arthur's still wearing his leather gloves. They're black, stopping at the wrist, for when Arthur means business. 

There's nothing underneath the jeans, no drawers, no union suit. Just Arthur's cock, thick and getting thicker. John takes a hard breath at the sight of it. It's not quite kissing close.

"You innerested in bein' useful for once today?" Arthur asks, the rough edge to his voice softened down. His gloved hand circles his own cock, giving it a slow stroke. 

He's still got John by the neck, which means John can't lean into him. He tries anyway.

"Asked you a question, boy," Arthur prompts.

John can't talk; the hook's too deep in his mouth. He nods.

"Thought so," Arthur says, smug. "I can tell when you need it. You had that look about you. Probably woulda come in if we'd invited you."

John doesn't know about that. He likes Mrs. Newbury just fine because she's paying him and Arthur well, but he's got Abigail back at the camp, sometimes, and the fact of it is that they _didn't_ invite him in.

That doesn't matter now though, because Arthur's guiding him him, leaning at the hips. John's mouth opens up before Arthur's cock can touch his lips, so their first contact is tongue on cockhead.

"Shit." Arthur backs up so he can do it again, sliding the tip of his cock over the tip of John's tongue. "God, your mouth is hot."

He pulls out again, but this time, when he slides in he does it deeper, to where John's mouth is wet with anticipation. The taste of him is intense: the dark saltiness of Arthur's hard-working body, as familiar to John as water, but there's another layer. Still salty, still body-warm, but lighter. Reminds John of a couple of times with Abigail.

_I ain't get to finish_. 

He can see it clear as a memory: Arthur stuffing his hard cock back into his jeans while Mrs. Newbury gave him hell about _his brother_ walking in on them. Not bothering to do anything about it in the hours after. Knowing Arthur, he was probably smirking about it on his horse riding here.

The knowledge is like a slap. John's foot kicks in the dirt involuntarily. Arthur holds his head still, but doesn't move his cock at all. He must feel how wet John's mouth gets though, because he chuckles.

"Yeah," he says, "you like that?"

He touches his thumb to the taut side of John's cheek, stroking himself through it, tender with himself. Once he thinks John has had his fill of the taste, he pulls back an inch or so.

“Start suckin’,” he says, his other thumb on John’s neck.

He doesn't need to tell John twice. John's missed this. It feels goddamn good to have somewhere to put the guilty, nervous energy he's had for hours. He tightens his mouth up, starts sucking like Arthur asked. 

He doesn't draw it out, like he might if his last go at this wasn't so long ago. He just sucks at the steady pace Arthur likes, tonguing the head when he needs a breath. 

Sometimes Arthur's rough with his mouth, but now he's standing still, his thigh hard under John's hand. His cock leaks into John's mouth, coating his tongue. John moans a little, so Arthur will flex under his hand, over his tongue. Make one of those satisfied sounds John heard earlier.

When he looks up, the line of Arthur's throat is long, his head tipped back. He’s totally at the mercy of John’s mouth. John sucks him harder, taking him deep in a long slide.

Arthur moans, gloves hot on Jon’s neck. John does it again, and again, feeling the tight winding of Arthur’s muscles under his hands, how he’s working to stay still against John’s feverish tongue. John wishes he wouldn’t. 

"Shit, boy," Arthur groans as he shoots in John's mouth. It goes on for a long time, thick pulses across John's tongue, the backs on his teeth. Arthur's cock feels huge in his numb mouth, no room for anything else. 

When he pulls out, John’s mouth goes slack, spend sliding off his tongue, hitting the scuffed, fire-hot dirt between his boots. Whatever's left, he swallows. 

“How w’sit?” John asks, slush-mouthed. He wipes some of the come and drool off his face with his wrist. They haven’t done that for a little while. Been busy, and not the good kind.

“Fine,” Arthur says. “You could use some practice.” He’s smiling though, intimately familiar with most of the practice John’s had in his life. His cheeks are red, and so is the bridge of his nose. He still looks handsome enough to hurt.

"Fuck off," John says again. Arthur lets him say it. John leans his forehead against the soft ridge of Arthur's hip and puts a hand to his own lap. He's so turned on his cock throbs. It won't take much, just some good strokes. Less if Arthur does them, one or two if he keeps the gloves on.

Arthur pulls him back by his neck, holding him out to look at him. John wonders what kind of picture he makes, slippery-mouthed, fire-faced, dick hard enough to bust under his hand. Arthur smiles, wide, on the edge of mean.

"Naw," he says, and kicks John's ankle to jostle his hand on his dick. John grabs himself reflexively, and then shudders. 

"What," John says back, mouth too tired for the question mark. 

Arthur nods at John's distorted zipper. "Uh-uh. Not now. Quit touchin'."

John does, but doing so hurts almost as bad as holding on. His fingers curl up on sweet nothing instead. "Why the hell not?"

Arthur lets him go so he can pull his jeans up over his wet cock for the second time today. He does everything up neatly, nothin’ to see here. John watches it happen openly, hungry for anything he can get.

Arthur bends at the waist so they're eye-level together. His hand comes back to John's nape, his favourite place to hold when they're doing this. He doesn't squeeze or pinch, just cups John there.

His tone is soft, but there's an undercurrent of expected obedience when he says, "If I had to wait, then so do you."

He looks John straight in the face, watching his mouth drop, his eyelids going jaggy. He feels the way John jerks, holds him at the neck. He doesn't look down so he doesn't see John's hips skid on the log, but he must know. Arthur's seen it all, made this game as much as John has. 

John's mouth goes dry, nothing in there, not even a curse. 

"I'll give you a minute," Arthur tells him, standing up. He has the nerve to crack his knuckles as he walks away, each one like a shot to John. He goes to his horse, opening the saddlebag before he interrupts himself to stroke the horse's long nose.

"Hello, gorgeous," he murmurs, like it was the fucking horse than just sucked him off. Instead of John, who sucked him off and who he’s leaving hanging. “Hello, sweetheart,” he says, rubbing the horse’s neck now. He's talking to the horse, but John's body reacts anyway, skin prickling, neck warming. It’s not his pleasure to take though, so he just sits still, staring at the fire until his sweat cools into shivers.

*

Arthur stays for a while, sitting beside John on the log in front of the fire. He doesn't say anything about how much John clears his throat. He gives John some roast chicken, wrapped in parchment.

"Peace offerin'," he says, while John unwraps it, "from the missus."

John makes an agreeable sound while he eats. It's good. Mr. Newbury didn't starve to death, for sure. 

"Weird, how we been there almost a month and ain't had mutton." John licks his fingers.

Arthur laughs. "She's probably sick of it by now."

John keeps licking his fingers, until Arthur notices. They raise their eyebrows at each other. Arthur puts his hand high on John's thigh, but he just pats John there, consolatory, before standing.

"I'll give you the night," he says generously. Then, more sternly, he says, "But be back in the morning. We have work to do. I can't do it all with you run off."

John rolls his eyes. He wants Arthur's hand back but would rather choke than ask for it. "I couldn't do it all with you fuckin' our hostess."

Arthur takes his chin in hand, black leather like butter on John's skin. "Back in the morning, boy, and keep your hands clean."

John’s face burns against Arthur's hand until he takes it away.

* 

John wakes up on the cold ground by his cold fire. That suits him fine. His lingering embarrassment and whatever fire Arthur put in his belly keep him warm as he packs up his bedroll and uses his stick to poke around in the dead coals. He takes his time securing the bedroll on his saddle, rubbing his bare fingers over his horse's cold coat, her sleek cheeks.

"Hello, beautiful," he says, trying for the way Arthur does it, throaty and sweet. He can't do it quite the way Arthur does, sounding like he's half in love with a horse, but her ears prick forward anyway. He spends a minute with her. She's been very good since John took her and Arthur's horse from a poorly-locked stable. He might keep her when they get back to camp. 

After a while though, she pulls at the reins, seeming to know he's stalling.

"Smartass," he mutters as he unhitches her. The ear closest to him twitches, but she takes his weight anyway. 

It's not a long ride back. Once he clears the trees he can see the smoke rising from the ranchhouse. That makes him slow up a bit, working over what he might say depending on how hard he needs to get back into Mrs. Newbury's good graces. He rolls some words around in his mouth while he rides, testing them out. He’s no born talker, and he’s even worse at apologizing so he wants to be careful. 

To get to the corral, he has to go to the back of the house. Arthur's in the sheep pen, shoveling shit in the morning sun. He uses his wrist to push his hair back when he sees John.

"Howdy," he says, plenty loud.

"Ben," John says, less loud. "Is the lady of the house in?"

"Yeah," Arthur says, at the same pitch. "Should be in the kitchen."

John stomps up the back steps, scuffs his heels on the porch, and raises his fist to knock. He and Arthur have been traipsing in and out of the house for weeks now, but he figures he ought to show that he's capable of using his manners for once.

"Come in," Mrs. Newbury says.

John can't hear the sound of shit being shoveled, but he doesn't look back. Lord knows what kind of dumbass face Arthur's making at him right now. He opens the door just enough to slide in and closes it behind himself.

Mrs. Newbury's at the sink, spotless dish in hand. Her hair, soft brown, is tied at the nape of her neck, how she always wears it. She has on one of her simply made, plain dresses, beaver brown today. Like the girls in camp, she doesn't bother with all the fancy stuff. She's a working woman, trying to get by. She told John and Arthur she sold her finery when her husband died, since she didn't need it any longer. At the time, he'd assumed she told them that to keep them from stealing from her, but now he thinks it's true.

She turns, still holding her bowl. She has a good look to her, sweet features, although her cheeks are pinker than most ladies from the sun, and you’d get tired trying to count the freckles on her. 

John takes his hat off, holds it in his sweaty fingers. "Mrs. Newbury."

She nods. "Mr. Hutton." She's originally from further East - John doesn't remember where - and it shows in her vowels. Her and Mr. Newbury came for the space and the challenge, before Mr. Newbury passed on.

John passes the hat hand to hand. "You can uh, you can call me Timothy."

She nods again, a quick dip of her chin.

John looks at the bowl in her hands. It’s white, cleanly made, but with a chip in the rim they have to be careful of. Arthur probably ate out of that bowl this morning. John wonders what bed Arthur woke up in.

“I, uh,” he says. He keeps his eyes on the bowl, staring the chip down. “I just wanted to say that I’m sorry.”

Mrs. Newbury’s hands don’t move. Her nails are clean and short. John’s staring, another rudeness. He makes himself lift his eyes. Mrs. Newbury’s face is blank, waiting on him. John feels embarrassment heat his face. It’s not like being chastised by Arthur, not even like being told off by Dutch. He doesn’t feel lit up or scared, just sorry.

He clears his throat. “My momma taught me better’n to barge in. I needed Ben for the sheep; I’m no born ranch hand like him.” He smiles grimly. Mrs. Newbury’s eyebrows go up, which he’ll take as a good sign. “But that’s a poor excuse. I know better. I apologize for interrupting.”

A moment slides by. John fiddles with his hat. He’s never been as charming as Arthur or Hosea or Dutch. Hosea’s even said John’s not fit for their particular brand of finishing school, that he’d get by through other means. 

Finally, Mrs. Newbury sighs, as if listening to John’s apology wore her out. She sets the bowl on the counter beside her and sags back against it. She reaches up to touch her eyebrow, smoothing the sparse hairs of the tail.

“Mr. Hutton, can I tell you something?”

“Of course.”

Her tongue touches her lips before she speaks. “First off, apology accepted. I opened my home to you two and gave you work to do, so you weren’t wrong to try and do it. Why shouldn’t you go looking for your brother in his room?”

“Mmm.” John can’t resist the noise. His acting’s getting better, he can pretend to be Arthur’s brother, actually is in some ways, but hearing other people say it still tickles him. 

She continues. “And I…probably shouldn’t have done it. It’s a stupid game to play. Folk around here already think I’m off. No children, no husband, just me and my sheep. Having two wandering ranch hands here already put Mrs. Bain down the road off her porridge. If people found out that I, well…”

She looks out the window, maybe at Arthur, and sighs, shaking her head. 

“I love and miss him, my Elliott. This ranch is all I have left of him. It’s ours, _mine_ now, and I’m determined to make it work. But I’m also trying to _live_, Mr. Hutton. You know? I want to know there are things that still make this existence worth it while I wait for the next one.”

John knows about expectant faces, open hands, and the things you keep for yourself sometimes, even if it’s selfish. It’s how he wants Arthur.

The light catches her profile, the slope of her nose, the part of her lips. She blinks slowly, fingers curling against her plain dress. She has the kind of fine-boned sadness John has never seen Arthur resist. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, understanding them both. When Mrs. Newbury doesn’t pull her eyes from the window or say anything, he adds, “Your business is your own, ma’am. I won’t tell.”

She finally looks at John.

“Oh,” she says, sounding surprised. “I didn’t think you would.” She smiles then, wistfulness turning wry. “Your brother assured me you’re where secrets go to die.”

John chuckles. “He ain’t wrong.”

She straightens up properly, and smiles at him for real. “Glad to hear it. Are we friends again?”

She puts her hand out. John takes it.

“Of course, ma’am.”

Mrs. Newbury gives him her raised eyebrow. “Call me Joan.”

They shake on it. Through the window beyond Joan’s shoulder, out in the pen, Arthur’s ankle deep in sheep shit, grinning at John like a fool.

*

It's high summer on the ranch, days long and hot. But for every hour of daylight, there’s two of work. Sheep to move, wood to cut, things to clean and mend, all day each day. John wakes up aching more days than not. At first, it’s just because of his cock between his legs, but muscle aches and sunburn pile on too, making for sore mornings. 

Today they're in the far paddock, fixing the fence so the sheep won't wander. The sun's blazing down, the air shimming with the heat. Each board or nail John picks up is warm in his hands. 

Arthur's shirt is off, hung over the gate. Arthur's shoulders are freckled and shining with sweat as he works on figuring out a kink in some of the fence wire. His skin would be hot under John's hands too, if John dared to reach out and touch. 

At the gate, Joan is leaning next to Arthur's shirt, the ranch cat Mr. Thompson perched near her. Both of them are watching Arthur work, their eyes thin with shrewd pleasure. John can see it from here; he’s trying not to get caught with the same look on his face. 

Arthur hums while he works, one of Pearson's camp songs. He either can't tell he has everyone's eyes on him or he's doing a damned good job ignoring them. He turns into the sun, holding up the wire to see it better, his waist and arms flexing.

Joan touches the thin end of her eyebrow, heat in her eyes to rival the sun, and John breaks.

"She'd have you again." He talks quietly, nods shallowly at her.

Arthur's hum turns from sing-song to questioning. He looks at John sideways, although his hands don't stop untangling the wire.

"That so?" He's asking but he's not really asking. He smirks at John. He does know what he’s doing, the bastard.

John rolls his eyes, but he's willing the heat in his guts to simmer down while he does it.

"Yeah," he says. "I thought you'd be spending more time with her."

"You worried about it?” Arthur moves so his body is all John can see, sweat on the inside of his elbows and the hair on his broad belly. Distracted, John misses the dangerous look on Arthur’s face as he says, “Wishing I'd spend more of my time in your mouth instead?"

John goes still, even as the bolt of arousal hits him. It's not even the worst thing Arthur's ever said to him, and there's no way Joan heard it. If Mr. Thomson heard it then it doesn't matter. Still, John can't believe it.

Arthur turns away from John, lifting one glistening arm to wave at Joan, calm and friendly like they're at church. Under his arm is wet with sweat and the wind must catch him just right because John can smell him, salty and musky, hard-working and sun-hot. The small mercy of him lowering his arm is wrecked by the warm, damp palm he claps on John’s shoulder before walking over to talk to Joan.

It's mortifying, how long John has to stay on his knees in the dirt after that. 

*

Just as the month turns over, Arthur announces that they’re leaving. Movin’ on, he says. Might go south to look for work for the winter. 

Joan raises an eyebrow, glancing out the window at the beautiful sunny day and the work waiting for them. 

“Seems early for that,” she says, unconvinced.

Arthur, the bullshitter, palms the back of his neck. “Ain’t a straight line south, ma’am.”

Joan’s other eyebrow goes up at _ma’am_. She’s not so dumb she can’t see through that one.

‘I’ll have to take your word for it, Mr. Hutton,” she says. “And when will you be departing?”

Arthur shrugs. “Couplea days. We’re almost done setting this place to rights. We won’t leave you at loose ends.”

Joan looks them over. John tries to give off the impression that this isn’t news to him too. 

Finally Joan’s eyebrows go down. “Alright then,” she tells them. “I’ll plan a dinner.”

*

Three days, two reinforced fences, seven hay bales moved, and a mountain of firewood cut and sheep shit shoveled later, John sits down at the dinner table wearing his best shirt as Joan puts a plate of roast lamb in front of him.

"Wow," he says, struck by the smell. "I didn't think I'd see the day."

Joan sits down at the head of the table. The plate in front of her is light on lamb, heavy on everything else she's cooked. 

"I'm pretty sick of it," she says. "But I've cooked it enough to be good at it, and a little more of it won't hurt me."

Arthur whistles. "Ma'am, you have outdone yourself." He picks up his fork, ignoring Joan's look. 

He’s not wrong. The food is great, the kind of great that makes you forget the limits to your hunger. And the company is good, Joan and Arthur laughing together over Arthur getting headbutted by a runaway sheep and Gideon the horse having a taste for John's shoulders. John, fork in his mouth, watches them lean in, close conspirators as they share stories. 

*

He's drifting in the darkness, weighed down with his blanket and too much good food, when the door to his room opens to let a shadow slip in. John blinks at it, stupid. 

The steps are light, but John knows it's Arthur. He'd recognize him anywhere. 

“S’me,” Arthur whispers.

"Uh-huh," John hums. He moves over an inch when Arthur gets to the bed, giving him almost enough space to sit comfortably. Arthur manages it, turning toward John. He smoothes the blanket over John's chest.

"Leavin' at first light," Arthur tells him.

"Uh-huh." John knows that. They discussed it after dinner and besides, that's when they always leave. He doesn't need to be told. 

Arthur keeps his hand on John. "You tired?"

"Uh-huh." John's coming around though, slowly emerging from his drift. He went to bed thinking Arthur'd be halfway to heaven with Joan by moonrise, so he must want something. 

"Been workin' hard," Arthur says. His hand slides up past the edge of the blanket, onto John's bare chest.

John clears his throat. "Yeah."

Arthur's hand slips under the blanket, resting over the rise of John's breast, near his heart. John takes a reflexive deep breath, letting it out under Arthur's petting thumb. He watches the solemn shape of Arthur's face in the dark, his eyes focused out the window. His thumb doesn't stop moving. The motion settles John. He lets his eyelids fall some, waiting. 

As John's starting to feel untethered again, that's when Arthur's hand moves. It lifts from John's chest, skimming from his skin back over the blanket, down to the space between his belly and his hips. 

Arthur's eyes find his, more intent than when they looked out the window.

"You been a good boy?" he asks.

John opens his mouth at the same time Arthur's hand moves down, grabbing a handful of John's cock through the thin blanket. It's not a rough grab, meant to hurt John. But it's steady, confident, no mistake. Arthur's fingers are cool, but that's not why John shivers, mouth still dropped.

"Y'ain't used this," Arthur says. He's not asking. Doesn't have to. He shifts his grip so he's not holding John's cock against his hips. He wraps his fingers around instead, the blanket still between their skin.

John closes his mouth, wetting his tongue so he can talk. "No, sir." He doesn't say he’s been working so hard he half-forgot he wasn't meant to. That doesn't feel true now. His cock's fattening up in Arthur's hand quickly.

"Good," Arthur tells him, and John's cock widens the circle of Arthur's fingers. His own fingers hold the blanket, knuckles tight. It's always a crapshoot if he's supposed to touch Arthur when he’s being like this, and he doesn't want to lose out this time. So he holds still. 

Arthur strokes him once, from the head down to the root, in that same grip. The feeling is a wonder, the roughness of the blanket and the firmness of Arthur’s fingers. Every part of John remembers he's been weeks without a touch like this and they sing for more. John knows this song though, and stays in place, trembling. His breaths come out gusty in the quiet room.

They stay, John's cock in Arthur's fist and his heart in his mouth, until Arthur laughs.

"Thought I coulda gotcha there," Arthur says, approving, voice warmer than John’s body under the blankets.

"Uh-uh," John says weakly. He takes a chance and tries to ease his grip on the blanket. 

Arthur leans down, kissing John's dry lips. He's smoky and his tongue is big in John's mouth. John makes a gutshot sound around it, thighs clenching with the urge to rise.

"Quiet," Arthur mumbles and puts his tongue back in John's mouth to shut him up. John struggles to subside, and gets another stroke of Arthur's hand for it. 

He expects Arthur to get rougher, climb into the bed with him. His body aches for the weight of Arthur pressing him into the thin mattress. But it stays like this: Arthur bent over him, kissing him deeply, fondling his cock through the blanket. Sometimes he kisses John's cheek or jaw, or squeezes his balls, but that's all he gives.

John curls his toes and fingers and sucks on Arthur's tongue, but doesn't take any more than that. His cock starts leaking, wetting the front of his shorts, making a little spot on the blanket. When he notices it, Arthur pulls back, eyes thin like a cat’s in the sun. He circles his palm over the spot, and John makes a difficult sound.

"Y'gonna?" Arthur asks John, hand cupped around that soaked spot.

"No," John sighs. Arthur hasn't said, and the friction's maddening, not satisfying, no matter the wait. 

Arthur's hand leaves his cock, coming back to his chest. John takes a quick breath, preparing for something worse. It's not the right game if Arthur isn't winning. But Arthur just leans down again, kissing John slowly, sloppily. His hand, beside John's head on the pillow, has that sharp, soapy smell to it. 

"I know you can be a good boy," Arthur says, once he's kissed John enough to have John's head foggy.

John nods. "Yessir," he says, damp lips dumb on the word.

Arthur turns on the bed to face the window. He stretches, his silhouette long and lit, before standing. He spares a hand for himself, the same hand he touched John with, resettling his cock in his trousers. John doesn't pretend like he's not looking, but he feels caught all the same when Arthur laughs at him.

"You're like a starving dog," Arthur says, reaching for John's cigarettes on the stand by the bed. He takes one, and John's matches. The matchlight explodes in the darkness, giving John a glimpse of Arthur's shadowed eyes, his full mouth on the cigarette. Arthur shakes the match out quick though, and then the dark seems even darker.

"Sorry," John says. His cock's still hard, and saying sorry doesn't change that.

Arthur inhales, cigarette flaring. He doesn't hold the smoke in, just blows it out right away. The glowing tip of the cigarette drops down, rides the wave of Arthur squeezing his own cock again. Arthur grunts, rough with himself.

"Didn't say it was bad." The cigarette tip rides up, down again. "I know whose dog you are."

It’s dark, but John slams his eyes closed anyway. He’s burning hotter than Arthur’s cigarette, body so tense he might snap. He doesn’t even breathe for a moment. 

He waits and waits and waits, until the fire in him cools and his body sags. The cigarette’s up near Arthur’s mouth when John feels safe enough to open his eyes again, but John can’t see Arthur now.

“Go to sleep,” the darkness beyond the cigarette says. “Early day tomorrow.”

John waits until Arthur’s gone, door shut securely behind him and his little light, before John turns onto his side, body sore from staying still. He takes a deep, smoky breath. Another, to steady himself.

*

They leave while the morning is still soft and grey. Everything is indistinct, except for his horse and Arthur's profile beside him. Arthur's quiet and easy the way he is after a job gone well, so loose in his saddle he's practically slipping off. He’s just showing off though. John looks at his loose hands on the reins and loves and hates him. It's early enough and he's tired enough that his blood shouldn't be hot. And yet. 

"Hope you never tell anyone," Arthur says, breath fogging the air.

"What?" John eases forward in his saddle, then back, uncomfortable.

"That you know how to be a ranch hand," Arthur says. He grins at John, line of his mouth soft. "You weren't any good."

"Shut up," John grouses, though he was planning on keeping this one to himself. "Gimme my cut."

Arthur reaches into his coat, pulling out a bundle of notes. It's warm from being next to Arthur's flank.

"Took the camp's cut already," Arthur tells him, like always. 

"I can do that myself," John responds, like always. He knows the rules like anyone else, wouldn't undercut the camp. He's sure he'll be forty and still have Arthur sorting out his share of the takes like he’s a kid. 

“Mmhmm.” Arthur tilts his head from one shoulder to the other until his neck cracks. He holds the reins loosely in his hands, and doesn’t look at John. He’s got his gloves on, and if John closes his eyes, he can hear the leather creaking.

*

They ride through the sunrise, going slow as the fog burns off and the sun lights the way. It's easy riding, conversation trickling between them. The landscape has low hills and valleys, and smatterings of trees leading to a forest on the horizon. Dutch and the gang are somewhere in there, a few days' ride deep. 

By midday, the sun’s hot and high enough to chase them into a stand of trees, where it's cool and dim. John gets off his horse, pats her once on her sweaty neck, and goes digging in his pack for something to eat.

Slinging himself off his horse, Arthur murmurs sweetly, "Y'okay?"

John stops, hand on a hunk of bread. "Huh?"

Arthur's got his hand on his horse's forehead, brushing her forelock to the side. She shuffles around and lets Arthur rub her cheek.

"Yeah," Arthur sighs. "Y'good."

John rolls his eyes, pulling wrapped mutton out. He ignores Arthur and his own traitorously twisting belly. With one final lingering stroke, Arthur leaves his mare to crash down at the base of a tree, stretching out. He holds out an imperious gloved hand to John and the food John has. John surrenders it all, watching Arthur unwrap the meat, rip the bread into rough chunks. 

There's nothing to talk about, so they eat in silence, passing Arthur's canteen back and forth. After the food's gone, Arthur slides down the tree until he's flat on his back, cold grass curling around the shape of him.

"John," he says, skinning his gloves off, one after the other. He stretches out his thick fingers.

"Uh-huh," John says, half-listening, rubbing his sun-sore eyes. Working on the ranch has made him soft, if half a day of riding has him this worn.

"Need you to do somethin' for me," Arthur murmurs in the silky-steel tone that makes John's body ring like a bell.

John whips to him, quick. Just in time to see Arthur drawing his cock out of his drawers. Reflexively, John looks away, past the horses, to the line of tree-break. His eyes don’t feel sore anymore.

"Ain't no one," Arthur says. He gets another handful, getting his balls out too. He's half-hard before he even starts jerking himself. 

"Arthur-" John protests. 

"Hush," Arthur says, "or I'll make you." Only he could say that, laid out in a clearing in the woods, dick in hand, and sound menacing.

"I-" John's eyes skitter around. All he ever wants is to look at Arthur, but it's midday. He can see the trail from here. 

Arthur's hand pulls his foreskin down. The head of his cock is dark in the low shadows, plummy. 

"Come do this for me," he grunts, other hand touching his sack. He grins at John. "No one'll see it if it's in your mouth."

"Fuck," John says, but he's leaning. Arthur catches him by the nape when he can and guides him the rest of the way.

Like the last time John did this, Arthur goes easy on his mouth, just lifting his hips in a regular, soft rolling. He does pull and grab at the parts of John he can reach though: his nipple, through his shirt; his hair; the top curve of his ass, sweaty from riding. He doesn't say anything, just grunts and groans under his breath. John drinks it all in, so intent that a family of royals could be riding by and he wouldn’t know.

Once, he pulls John's mouth off his cock, just to tug it down to his balls. John kisses their full shape, wraps his tongue around the hot softness of one, just to feel it pull back against Arthur's body. He doesn't get to do the other before Arthur stuffs his cock back into John's mouth. He comes there, pushed deep, his palm holding John's throat so John's swallow has to struggle across it.

He lowers himself back into the grass, sighing. John follows him, keeping the heat and heft of Arthur's cock in his mouth. Arthur doesn't make him move, even as he softens. John only pulls back with he feels ready, and dips back in to kiss Arthur's balls again.

"Christ," Arthur says, eyes up on the tree canopy. He passes his hand over his forehead.

John resettles on his knees as he tucks Arthur's dick away. They ache sharper than his own cock does, which is a deep, resonant hurt. 

When Arthur's taken care of, John lowers a hand to his crotch. "Can I?" he asks.

Arthur fixes him with a look that gets him to stop playing with himself. "Is that bein' good, you think?"

John's body goes tense, warm, sweet shame rising in him.

"If you think it is," he says.

It’s the right answer, but Arthur’s not falling for it today. Arthur laughs at him, and the shame breaks over John like a wave. It’s such a good-bad sensation he feels sick with it.

“Not today it’s not,” Arthur says, still chuckling. It takes a minute for his good humour to fade; John burns the whole time. Eventually Arthur clears his throat, reaching for his hat, forgotten on the grass beside him. Instead of getting up, he drops his hat over his face and rests his hands on his belly.

"We gonna stay here?" John asks, eyebrow up.

"For a while.”

“Shouldn’t we...”

"Make sure the horses don't go nowhere," Arthur mutters from under his hat, voice muffled, fading already.

"Yeah," John says, strained, watching dust settle on the trail.

*

John hasn't known Arthur to be one to dawdle. He'll run at the sound of shots or a scream, and won't lag behind unnecessarily, but he John's always known him as a measured man that keeps moving to his own steady beat. Now though, his tempo's slow. He wakes up from his nap and takes his sweet time getting them going again. He lets his mare drift off the trail as she likes and as soon as the sun starts its sink toward the horizon he tells John they'll make camp.

Uncomfortable with the lazy pace, John says, "Really? It's already a couplea days from Dutch and the others."

Arthur yawns, making a meal out of it. "Really. I’m tired.”

“Doubt that,” John mutters, but follows anyway.

*

In the middle of the night he hear-feels Arthur get up from his bedroll. There's no hurry in his step and he doesn't call to John so John tucks his loose shoulder back into the bedroll. When he comes back, Arthur moves his bedroll closer to John before he gets in it. His knee knocks into the back of John's thigh.

John manages a slumping half-turn. "Y'want me?" Sometimes, the space between the middle of the night and dawn is the only time they can have some privacy. He doesn't remember they're alone; he reacts without thought. If Arthur wants him, John wants him back.

“Not now,” Arthur says softly, rubbing a cold hand briskly over John’s hair. 

At dawn, when everything is hazy and cool, Arthur peels back his bedroll. John inhales his grumble at the cold until Arthur climbs in on top of him, laying in the cradle of his body. Arthur’s nude, hard already. He sets to quick work, knees to the ground, rubbing against John and kissing him.

His mouth is hot and sour, his fingers cold and hard in John’s hair.

“Shoulda made you go to sleep naked,” Arthur grunts, rolling his hips so his cock saws up under John’s balls in his union suit. “Be easier to take what I want.” The way he’s moving makes the fabric chafe over John’s asshole. 

“Yeah,” John pants, barely awake but ready anyway. Arthur could have just put John how he wanted him and stuck it in. It hurts, but John’s done it like that before. He would have liked it and it would have been plenty slick if Arthur came in him. He shudders at the thought, wriggling until Arthur pins him at the head and the hips, humping harder against him. Their breath mingles in the air, turning frosty. 

“You want this?” Arthur groans when his cock finds the crease of John’s thigh and ruts there.

“Yeah,” John moans, “yeah, fuck me.”

Arthur’s moving harder and faster. “Y’gotta say please, kid.”

He’s tired and it hurts but it feels so good and John wants it so badly. “Fuck, please, Daddy.”

Arthur’s groan blows hot over John’s face as he comes, making a mess of John’s hip, his belly. His body is so heavy it feels like John can’t move, like he has to just take it. He’s so turned on he’s sweaty and gasping. 

Arthur’s breath starts cooling on his face, chilling him.

“Let me look,“ Arthur murmurs. He unbuttons John’s union suit from the navel down, parting the fabric, peeling the wet patch away from John’s skin.

“Oh, boy,” he says, saying _boy_ in that round, full way he has. “Lookit this cock. Can tell you ain’t had none for a while. And these,” his hand cupping both of John’s balls, “feel like stones. Hard as hell.” He just barely squeezes them and the swollen ache of them makes John almost break the birdsong with a yell. Arthur leaves off them and pulls a cold, light finger up John’s cock, pinning it against John’s belly so he can get up close to it. His breath burns like sin. John feels crazy.

“Y’gonna give me a taste?” Arthur uses his tongue on the slit and under the foreskin until John’s cock gets wet at the tip. “Not bad,” he says, swallowing like he got a real mouthful and not just a drop.

John shivers, feeling river-dunked. 

“Arthur,” he says helplessly. It comes out wet in the morning air.

Arthur, doing the buttons up again, still going from the navel to John’s crotch, murmurs, “Little longer, boy. Do it for me.” He lays a heavy hand on John’s belly, away from the wet spot.

John breathes into the steady weight. When he looks, Arthur’s smiling, real pleased with him, and that’s the thing that makes it possible to go on.

*  
At first, the day starts off in fine shape. John has to crumple up his union suit and push it to the bottom of his pack, wet patch already drying white, which Arthur smugly watches him do. But they have a good breakfast, more of Joan's leftovers and some coffee she gifted them for their hard work. The talk is easy and inconsequential, and Arthur puts his hand on John several times: his elbow, his shoulder, his hip. It’s never because he needs to, but he does it anyway.

After they pack up, they hike out of the trees and up a tall grassy hill. At the top, Arthur shades his eyes and looks around. 

"That way," he says, pointing to the south, where a fat river cuts through the hills and trees. "Camp's that way. Two days if we hurry."

It's the direction they came from alright, but nearly six weeks ago. That's a long time for Dutch's gang. More than once John can remember being woken up by Hosea shoving a gun into his hands, or Arthur tugging on his hair, or one time, an O’Driscoll stumbling over John's legs in the dark. All those times, John was in a completely different place the next time he went to sleep.

"How'd you know they're still there?" he asks. 

Arthur squints in that direction, as if he can see straight through the trees to the others. 

"They'll be there," he says. He lowers his hand. "They ain't goin' nowhere 'til we get back. Don't worry, no one’s gonna leave you behind."

"I'm not," John insists. He's not a kid anymore, sneaking into bed with Arthur or following him through the bush. He's got a place. He knows that.

To Arthur's high eyebrow he says, "Really." Then, softer, darker, he says, “You’re the one who’s always writin’ letters to Hosea tellin’ him where you’re at.”

"Yeah, so he don't leave _me_ behind."

John rolls his eyes. Like Hosea or Dutch would ever leave Arthur behind anywhere on this green Earth.

Arthur's back to looking around, scanning the horse-carved trails for how he wants to go. John turns his face to the sun. Today's gonna be beautiful, clear and warm. He looks at the rosy backs of his eyelids until Arthur's hand finds his hip again. He turns to see what Arthur's pointing him toward, but it's just Arthur, looking at him, warmth in his eyes. 

Arthur pulls on John's hip, licking his mouth, looking at John's.

"Uh." Feeling shy, John cranes his head around, eyes sweeping over the landscape. The shadows are long, but the sun is still out and they’re on top of the tallest hill around. He doesn't get to look at all the trails before Arthur's turning his face back, holding him still.

"C'mere, boy," he says and takes a kiss from John. It's not quick. Arthur takes his time, stroking his tongue over John's and thumbing his cheek until John gives in, trusting that Arthur will take care of him.

*

Arthur doesn’t let up. He spends all morning being rough and playful with John. He helps John onto his horse with a hand on John's thigh, teases him deftly and mercilessly about how he pink he gets in the sun, and even rides close enough to grip the horn on John's saddle, knuckles almost brushing John's crotch. "Y'ready to stop for lunch?" he asked, nodding to a copse of trees, looking wicked in the shadow of his hat.

After so little for so long, Arthur’s attention is overwhelming. By the afternoon, John feels dizzy and sensitive. It's hard to focus on riding when he can't stop thinking about Arthur making him stretch to rest his wrists against a tree, pants around his thighs. Arthur's off somewhere to his left now, both of them drifting along the trail, but John can still feel the wetness of his mouth on John's nape, his hands pulling John's ass open, saying _show me what I got, boy._

He's dreamy and unfocused, not looking where his horse is going, so when the porcupine lumbers onto the trail in front of him, he doesn't see it until his horse skids, neighing shrilly.

"Whoa," he yelps as the porcupine turns to face them. They have too much forward momentum and John doesn’t know this horse well, so when the horse rears up to turn away from the danger John can’t do much to stop her. John grasps at the reins but he's already tilting back, going weightless. All he can see as he falls is the sun, blinding him.

His breath explodes out of him when he hits the dirt on his back and he can't get it back. The sun swims above him, shrouded in dust now and he feels his horse running more than he sees or hears her. He hopes the porcupine didn't hurt her. 

In hopes of the porcupine not hurting _him_, he rolls onto his side, finally gasping. The pain in his body is all-over, which is better than the sharpness of a broken bone or something wrong with his skull, but it still hurts like hell. 

"Jesus, John!" Arthur hollers. More hoofbeats hit the ground, followed by Arthur's boots. John puts his hand on the dirt, shoving at it, pushing up until he can get his knees underneath himself.

"What happened?" Arthur demands, catching John's elbow to haul him up.

Still struggling to breathe, John wheezes: "Porcupine."

Arthur's head whips around to look, where the porcupine's moving away through the long grass. "What the hell, John? How'd you miss 'im? He's a monster."

John shrugs, which thankfully doesn't hurt like a dislocated shoulder or two. He's covered in dirt from the trail, but he can't see any blood. His horse is some distance away, nervously roaming, looking over this way.

"Some stupid," Arthur tells him. "You gotta watch where you're going."

John moves his head around on his neck and tongues his teeth. They’re all there but something must have rattled loose because he says, "I was thinkin' about you, before, when you made me..."

Arthur's face goes stormy hearing that. He leaves off squeezing John's elbow hard enough to break and goes for John’s mare. It takes a while for Arthur to bring her back. He spends some time petting her mane, saying sweet things to her. Probably apologizing for John being such a fool. John waits for him, breath rough in his chest, sweating out the adrenaline until it mixes with the dirt on his skin.

"Here," Arthur says when he hands the reins over. "Don't scare her again. Can you ride?"

John's already climbing up onto the saddle. He holds the reins tight this time. "Yeah. Feels okay."

Arthur comes back on his own horse, who’s stupid enough to have taken this whole thing in stride. He watches John for a minute, eyes sweeping until John feels like the kid no one trusts. John falls behind, just so Arthur can't do that anymore. 

"Stick close, now," Arthur says, eyes on the horizon.

"Yessir," John says, watching Arthur's rigid back ride toward the sun.

*

There’s no more playful handsiness after that. They barely speak until John borrows Arthur’s bow to shoot a rabbit.

“Good shot,” Arthur says from horseback as John kneels in the grass to field-dress the rabbit. He’s said time and again that he’s no good with a bow, but he still carries one.

“Thanks. You’ll cook it?”

“Sure.”

John puts away his knife and stretches, Arthur’s eyes on him the whole time. 

“Y’alright?” Arthur asks, fiddling with his reins. 

There’s a couple of different ways Arthur says a thing like _y’alright_. The first isn’t a question. It means _I heard you; shut up_. The second is the kind of thing John used to hear when he was younger, and still waking up soaked to the skin. _Y’alright_ and a hand on the forehead meant he was safe. This is the third way, generally reserved for bullet grazes, belly wounds, or other brushes with death. Means _you scared me there_.

Stowing the rabbit for later, John nods his head. This wasn’t near serious enough to warrant a reaction like that. The elbow Arthur grabbed hurts more than anything else. “Yeah. It was just a nasty surprise.” He feels fine now. Tomorrow will tell the real tale of it, but for now it’s no problem to get back on his horse.

Arthur’s mouth works, from one side to the other like he’s got tobacco in there. He’s still tense around the eyes.

“We’ll stop soon,” he tells John. 

John stills, hands on the saddlebag. “We don’t gotta. I feel fine.”

Arthur twists his hand, wrapping the reins around his gloved knuckles. “Wasn’t asking.”

Slick shame and prickly petulance flood John’s veins. He’s not looking to be coddled. It was just a fall. They happen, even when he’s not distracted by Arthur’s deep voice and big hands. 

He gets up on the saddle as smooth as he can. Even if it hurt he wouldn’t be able to tell through his tangle of feelings, annoyance and embarrassment and a kind of endearment John won’t look too closely after.

Annoyance wins out. “Then let’s fuckin’ go,” he says, snapping the reins.

Arthur makes a curt _after you_ gesture with the hand not wrapped up tight.

*

Sunset finds them picking their way through the forest, looking for a good place to make camp. The light is so golden and long-reaching it's hard to see Arthur in front of him, let alone the farmhouse they come across. It's tall but shabby, with lights within. Out front, near to them, is a squat, ramshackle out-building. Arthur turns from the sun, tilting his hat so John can see his face.

_Wait here_ he mouths. He gets out of the saddle and leads his horse over. John takes the reins, but whispers, "Let me help."

"I'll be fast," Arthur whispers back. He takes his pistol from his saddlebag and creeps along the line of trees until he's got the angle to sidle up to the crooked door of the out-building. Arthur tests the door and John's ears go sharp at the creak. He looks to the windows of the house, but no curtains flash, no faces appear. Arthur slips in.

It's nothing, just a storage building, probably more full of dust than anything else. But John's breath goes shallow and his palm goes hot on the reins. He hasn't got a gun nearby. It’s been weeks since he needed a gun for anything more than scaring a coyote.

There's movement in the out-building's tiny window. John's knees tighten on his horse, but it's just Arthur's black hat going by. Of course, in this he's steady and methodical, probably picking up every piece of junk he finds so he can sell it for pennies later. 

Finally, the door opens a crack, Arthur's hand and boot and eye visible. John nods at him once, briskly. _All clear_. Arthur comes out as carefully as he went in. He's got his pistol in one hand and a brown bucket in the other. Once he's crossed back into the golden shifting shadows of the trees, he tips it to show John. Odds and ends. 

He takes his reins back, but doesn't get on the horse right away, leading her instead deeper into the woods, away from the house. He doesn't get on until they're too far away to hear that house or be heard. 

"Anything good?" John asks, once he's certain no one's gonna take a shot at them.

Arthur shrugs. "We'll see."

*

The sunset has lavender and pink creeping into it by the time they find a place Arthur's happy with. It looks like any other clearing to John, but Arthur seems pleased by the tightness of the trees at the edge, the smoothness of the ground, the sound of the river close by. He ties the horses in a patch of good grass and watches John get out of the saddle, but doesn’t help.

To cover up his disappointment at that, John asks: "You'll still cook, right?"

Arthur rubs his own shoulder. "Yeah. Get the rabbit." He turns to his own pack.

When John turns back, Arthur's holding two items: the bucket he stole, and a white cake of soap. He holds them out to John.

John opens his mouth, but Arthur cuts in: "Just because I have fucked you when you're dirty doesn't mean I wanna."

John closes his mouth. His cheeks start burning. He lets Arthur trade him: the worn bucket handle and soap for the rabbit.

"From the missus," Arthur says, nodding to the soap. "Parting gift. Put it to good use. Water won't be too cold yet."

It isn't ever the cold of the water that bothers John, but Arthur's got the look on his face like he's set, so John turns, suddenly feeling more dirty than he has in all the weeks they worked the ranch. He picks his way along the rabbit and deer trail to the fat-bellied river, so swollen up it looks like it’s hardly moving. Not that John would ever fall for that trick. 

There's a faint warm breeze blowing as John undresses, but the rocks are cool under his feet, slippery under the water. The drop-off John can see is just past his knees, so he's forced to crouch down and subject himself to the river that way. It's breath-stealingly cold on his thighs and balls. He dunks his hands into the river and splashes his face. If he was a braver man, he'd just fling himself into the deep and be done with it. But the water's been making a coward out of John for years though, so he just fills the bucket and tips it over himself, gasping at the chill.

The cake of soap is thump-printed and clean-smelling. No flowers or oils. But it lathers well, and takes the dust and sweat with it down the river. 

John's gasping again, pushing his just-rinsed hair out of his eyes, when he spots Arthur. He’s on the riverbank, next to the heap of John's clothes, lighting a cigarette. He doesn't look away when John blinks at him, surprised at his stealth. He takes a drag and tucks his thumb into his pocket, taking John in. 

For just a second, John has one of those moments where he’s out of his body and can see himself how Arthur can: dripping wet and cold, one knee out of the water and one in, half his cock visible, breathing like this is hard work.

A blush rises in John's face, tingly and warm against the cool of the water and the wind. He feels ashamed of the stupid picture he makes, and it isn’t helped by Arthur’s cool, appraising face. 

Behind John, a fish leaps out of the river. When it splashes down, John’s image of himself dissolves and all he can see is his own hands under the water, ghostly above the river stones.

He wipes his wet hands on his wet face and stands up as Arthur bends down to pick up his clothes.

“Clean enough?” he asks once he’s on dry land. He holds out his dripping arms, tilting his chin up, hoping to be defiant.

Arthur gives him an up-and-down once-over. It goes from John’s face to sweep across his shoulders and arms, lingering on John’s bruised elbow, before moving down his stomach, his cold cock, his legs, and back up. He shifts the bundle of clothing under one arm.

“You need a haircut,” Arthur says, eyes on the hair around John’s ears but reaching out to tug sharply at the hair between his legs.

John hisses, stumbling back on the dusty rocks. He pushes Arthur’s hand away. Whatever defiance he held turns to anger that gets him speaking without thinking.

“Quit,” he spits, putting his hand against the itchy pained spot. “You ain’t my daddy. Can’t tell me nothing like that.”

Arthur’s face drops. It’s like a shadow passes over it, darkening Arthur’s eyes and his mouth.

He shoves the cigarette in the corner of his mouth, talking around it. “You’re lucky I ain’t.” He doesn’t say why, but John knows that old threat, has heard it out of plenty of mouths over the years. 

John hasn’t been afraid of Arthur for years, and he’s not now either, but he knows when he’s said the wrong thing. He’s had plenty of practice at it. 

He palms the back of his neck, squeezing water out of the hair there. He and Arthur got haircuts in town before they picked up work at the Newbury ranch, the same style: short sides, longer on top, how Arthur favours his hair in summer. To make them look alike, he’d said. Arthur has kept up with his. John hasn’t and now it’s shaggy, uneven. 

“M’not,” John says quietly. “Sorry, Arthur.” He’s for shit at saying he’s sorry, but he knows he didn’t mean it. He’s past twenty now, doesn’t need his daddy, has hardly had one and he’s okay enough. He’s lucky to have Arthur. Arthur’s always been good to him in all the ways John’s ever needed him to be. It was just a little teasing. John knows better than to be like that. It was just the deep water and the cold and the anticipation that did it.

Arthur’s jaw tics. John waits, thinking about how much getting on his knees on the rocks would hurt.

“Sure,” Arthur says, just when John’s resigning himself to more bruises. “C’mon. Food’s ready.”

John holds out his hands. “I need to get dressed.”

Arthur raises his eyebrows, like that idea just occurred to him and he doesn’t think much of it. 

“Naw,” he says slow and mean. “These’re dirty. You need new ones. Put your boots on. Let’s go.”

John’s stomach flips. He looks around, but it’s just them and the cold river. Arthur clears his throat impatiently and flicks his cigarette into the rocks.

Feeling sorry, John puts his wet feet into his boots and walks back the way he came, up the deer path. Arthur walks behind him and doesn't touch him at all even though he’s close enough to. The breeze coming through the trees is cold now. Goosebumps rise on John's arms and thighs. His nipples pull tight and even though he's a little turned on, his cock stays soft. John would cover himself, but he needs his hands to move branches out of the way. It’s a short walk but it feels like a mile.

There's a fire at the camp, both of their bedrolls set out near it. The rabbit's roasting on a stick spiked into the ground, fat dripping onto the rocks.

"Homey," John says, giving into the urge to rub his arms. It doesn’t feel like there’s an ounce of warmth left in him. He shifts closer to the fire.

Arthur hums from behind him, taking John's clothes over to their packs. He goes into both packs, pulling things out. He comes back with a short stack and hands that over. John recognizes all the pieces. It's his own drawers, socks, and pants. But on top is one of Arthur's shirts, the one with the permanently rumpled collar and disobedient buttons that won't stay done up. 

"I..." He trails off. Even though it’s cold, his cock jerks against his thigh. He doesn’t know if this is punishment or praise.

Arthur hums again. "Go on."

He dresses, putting on his own clothes first, since those are easy. But the easiness just means it's done sooner and then he's got to swing Arthur's shirt over his shoulders, not sure if he’s still wet or sweating. It fits fine. His shoulders are almost the same width of Arthur's. But he's not nearly as thick as Arthur is in the chest and waist. Where the shirt would cling to Arthur it hangs on John, even with the buttons done up.

"Ah," Arthur says, after he's finished. He tilts John's chin up with his fingers. John swallows tightly, but all Arthur does is unbutton the top button so the shirt is open over the dip in John’s throat. "There," Arthur murmurs. He turns away. “Let’s eat.”

John can smell Arthur on the shirt. He closes his eyes. “Okay,” he says, suffering.

*

John's not hungry for food, but he's knows better than to turn down a meal on the trail. The rabbit's good, hot and filling, nice after a long day, even if a big part of John's belly stays empty. It's twice as nice when Arthur gets out his flask and passes it back and forth with John while they eat. They don’t talk, Arthur concentrating on his food and John concentrating on Arthur. 

There's even a few mouthfuls of some sweet, crumbly cake after that, picked out of a handkerchief.

Arthur takes the last piece of it right out of John’s hands, tucking it into his own mouth with a thumb.

“That was _mine_,” John protests.

Arthur sucks on his thumb. “Pretty sure I can eat what I want.”

John takes a deep breath, smelling Arthur all around him, his blood rising.

Arthur's barely done brushing the crumbs out of his beard before John's leaning in for a kiss. He wants the next part more than he wants to be treated with cake and whiskey. He hardly gets anything before Arthur's pushing him back by the shoulder.

"Whoa, boy," Arthur says firmly. He wipes his other hand over his mouth.

Frustration sparks in John, just as quick as at the river "Arthur-" he says impatiently. He’s done everything Arthur’s asked, been good even if Arthur hasn’t told him so, and he can’t stay on this knife-edge anymore. “You said you’d fuck me.”

Arthur narrows his eyes at John, mouth twisting to the side condescendingly. 

“Did I? I don’t remember promising you nothing.”

“You said-” John says, even as he knows what Arthur said. He stops, eyes to the dark trees instead of Arthur. He goes flush-faced, upset with himself for presuming and Arthur for not giving him what he’s been waiting for.

"Thought so,” Arthur murmurs after it’s obvious John’s not going to say anything else, reaching down for the flask. He gets to his feet, unscrewing the cap. 

“You got one more chance, Johnny boy," Arthur warns and then he puts his hand on John’s face. "Open," he commands, thumb and pointer finger framing John's lips, squeezing enough that John’s lips purse. 

There’s not much choice, so John does it. Arthur pours a little whiskey in, taking care to slop some down John’s chin. 

"Hold it."

Hearing that makes it so all John wants to do is swallow. Everything else clears out except: _swallow, swallow, swallow_. It's the only thought in his mind, how good it would feel to swallow, how unnatural it is not to. It feels like he’s never swallowed in his life and he’ll die if he doesn’t.

"Hold it," Arthur says again. "Look at me."

Whiskey stinging his tongue, saliva filling his mouth, John looks. Arthur's stern-faced, jaw set. John’s still not afraid of Arthur but he doesn't doubt Arthur'll leave him cold if he doesn’t hold it. 

There’s plenty of times when all John wants is for Arthur to catch him by the back of the neck and grind his gasping mouth into something hard, but that’s not what’s happening here. If he defies Arthur this will be over and if he obeys maybe there’s a chance at it still. He wants to be good so he holds the whiskey in his mouth until it goes warm and his jaw aches. He holds Arthur’s eyes until his vision starts to blur. Finally, Arthur taps his cheek.

“Okay, swallow.”

John swallows the sludgy mix of spit and whiskey, showing Arthur his tongue automatically. He doesn’t mean to do it. It’s just habit. Arthur’s made him show his tongue before. He feels sheepish as he puts his tongue back in his mouth.

“Sorry,” he says, for his tongue and his backtalk.

Arthur doesn’t comment on that. He screws the cap back on the flask and hands it down to John.

“Y’done acting up?” Arthur sounds pissed-off for real, not acting the role. John’s belly churns.

Feeling meek, he nods. He fiddles with the flask with nervous fingers.

“Okay,” Arthur says. “Need you to do something for me.”

The reaction John has to that is automatic too, knees apart, chin tilted up to Arthur. But Arthur’s all-business. There’s none of that bell-ringing silky tone now.

“Watch the fire,” he says brusquely. It’s the kind of thing you tell a kid to keep them out of trouble for a while.

“What?” John turns to see Arthur, but Arthur just turns him back to face the fire with a hand on the top of his head. He’s not kind about it. 

“I’ll be back soon.”

“Where are you going?” It comes out plaintive. John wants to stuff it back into his mouth as soon as it comes out.

Arthur’s fingers hold him still by his messy hair. “Not far,” he says. Then, softer: “Promise. Just watch the fire for me. I need a minute.”

His fingers leave, and then John hears his footsteps, the sounds of the horses. In front of him, the fire crackles, indifferent to this turn of events. 

John doesn’t have a choice so does as he's told and watches the fire. After a minute, he tucks his restless hands in close to his belly. At least he’s warm from the whiskey and the food.

At first, he has to concentrate so he doesn’t get up and follow Arthur. He takes deep, slow, smoky breaths and focuses on one log in the fire, its glowing core, telling himself that Arthur’ll come back if he waits. Bit by bit it gets easier. He stops thinking so hard about Arthur and instead focuses on how the flames flicker and the coals pulse like a heart, like his own heart. There’s a soft, dark place inside John and after a while, the fire leads him there. 

He can faintly hear when Arthur comes back, talking to himself or the horses, not John. John's thoughts are drifting through his mind and his breathing is sleepy, but when Arthur cups his nape he straightens into it.

Arthur squeezes his neck with kind fingers. "Did it get away?"

"No, sir," John murmurs, and lets himself be tugged until his cheek is against Arthur's hip.

“How you feelin’? You in there?” Arthur asks, sounding hushed and far away, coming to John through cotton.

John closes his eyes, seeing the fire there anyway. Hearing Arthur’s voice, feeling the heat of his hip, is like taking a drink when you’re parched. 

“Good,” he says, muddy-mouthed, “yes.” He lets himself lean into Arthur and doesn’t stop until the button on Arthur’s pocket is digging into his cheek. “You?”

Arthur chuckles. “Good, better.” Maybe John’s imagining it, but Arthur’s voice sounds deeper. And he _feels_ calmer. Whatever he did while he was gone must’ve helped him. He's radiating the easy confidence he learned from Dutch or Hosea or just his years of living. Even his hip under John's cheek feels more welcoming. His fingers move over the damp hair above John’s ear, stroking it back carefully.

After some seconds where John sinks into the dark place with that touch, Arthur taps his cheek, the one without the button digging into it. 

"Come up here," he says, already pulling John by his sore elbow. There's no pretense; Arthur keeps him close. John tilts in for a kiss. He doesn't get it, but that's only because Arthur's mouth meets the side of his jaw first, kissing over his stubble, back to his ear. Each touch is light and sweet and Arthur’s hands are loose on John’s elbow, his nape.

“You still want this?” he asks, making the effort to sound like he wouldn’t be bothered none if John says no. He’s not good at saying sorry either. 

John fits his hand to the strong curve of Arthur’s jaw. His thumb finds the back of Arthur's ear, which is cool and wet. “Course I do.”

Arthur sighs, kissing John’s ear, once, twice.

"Boy," he murmurs, low and hot and relieved. John shivers. "Boy," he says all down John's neck, to the hollow, which he sucks on while he slips his hand between the buttons on his own shirt. They part so easy it's like they're dying for the touch, not John. Arthur's big hand slides in, cupping over John's breast. His nipple is hard, not from the cold. 

John's bootheels dig into the dirt as his hips raise up. Arthur's not close enough to rub against, bent how he is, mouth against John's neck.

"You like that?" Arthur asks, licking down until he can get his tongue on John's nipple. His teeth are so close.

"Yes," John says honestly. He gets the bite anyway, but it's just a light tug, not meant to hurt John. And it’s quickly replaced by Arthur's tongue again, soft on the sting. Arthur bites him again, teeth wider around his nipple. John moans, tipping his head back, eyes shut so it's all dark although there’s no mistaking Arthur; John can smell him: soap and fire and skin.

Arthur palms him roughly and then sets to work on the zip on his pants. He's even rougher with that, ripping the two sides apart, forcing John's underwear down. John doesn't care. He just holds onto Arthur and tries to keep his feet planted in the dirt. 

Arthur pulls away from his chest to look down at John's cock, so stiff its pointing damn near at the sky. 

“Jesus,” he mutters. “If you won’t beg me, it will.”

“I can beg,” John promises, voice strained.

“Fuck.” Arthur’s breath comes out hard, cooling John’s damp chest, skin pulling tight. “Gimme your hand.”

John gives it up blindly and without hesitation. His trust is rewarded by Arthur taking John's fingers into his mouth, first two, then four. Arthur's mouth is plenty wet, spit running to the bases of John's fingers. Arthur pulls off and spits into the dry cup of John's hand before guiding it down to wrap around John's cock. He wraps his own hand around, making John stroke himself the way Arthur does: tight and slow.

John's right knee jiggles dangerously, threatening to give. He’s gasping like Arthur's poured more of that icy river water over him. He curls into Arthur, face in Arthur's shoulder, counting on Arthur to take his weight.

Arthur takes him, steady and solid. He grunts, but not with effort. John didn't need the slick palm Arthur gave him; his cock is kicking out precome with almost every stroke. John can smell it. 

"Goddamn," Arthur mutters, fist going down to John's balls and back up to the head in an agonizingly good slide that makes John's cock wet Arthur's palm. "Poor thing. No one's treating you right, are they, son? You gotta daddy to look after you, be nice to you?"

John moans, biting Arthur's shirt, his steady shoulder. The words are better and worse than a shot in the belly. His hips are jerking off-tempo with Arthur's hand, which he's not supposed to do, but he can't help it. If he was the praying type, and capable of it, he'd be praying for Arthur not to stop. 

Arthur doesn’t. Not that it matters much. A few more strokes and John comes into Arthur's fist, over his wrist. Hurt sounds slip out of his open mouth. He doesn’t know if he was supposed to come. Arthur didn’t say.

Arthur lifts his hand away too soon, before John's done, while cock is still twitching. He lifts his hand out of the shadow between their bodies, turns it so its in the light from the fire. His palm is spread with white and there's a dripping skid on his broad wrist. When he lifts his hand up to his mouth, the fire glints off John's come and Arthur's tongue licking it off. 

He's not doing it to tease John. He's licking and sucking on his own skin like he's starving, eyes on John like he can see his next meal. His other hand’s got John in a pup-hold, which feels like it’s the only thing keeping John up. 

John drops a hand down to his sore cock, cupping it. It's still hard, his balls still drawn up. Almost hurts worse than it did before he came.

Once Arthur’s finished sucking on the heel of his hand, Arthur uses it to replace John’s hand on his cock. 

“You heard me?” Arthur asks.

“Huh?” John watches his cock twitch in Arthur’s hand.

Arthur jerks his chin to draw John’s attention. “Asked you if you got a daddy already.”

John leans in to put his mouth on Arthur’s broad jaw. He grips Arthur’s belt and bites a little. “Uh-huh,” he tells Arthur, “you,” and kisses his grinning mouth. He licks into Arthur’s mouth, hungry for him, happy to have and be had.

When his mouth is free, Arthur asks,"You got more in there for me?" although it’s not much of a question. He thumbs the tip of John’s cock until it spits a little more precome up. The greed in Arthur’s voice and John’s cock have the answer.

John feels like he could come again just from this, Arthur's thumb making its rounds over the tip of his prick. His thighs feel weak. He nods.

Arthur's eyes on him are flashy and possessive. "Yeah?"

"Yessir," John corrects, mouth dry, face hot. 

The sound Arthur makes is rough, almost upset-sounding. But not like before, better, _good_. His hands on John's shoulders are forceful, swinging him around, bearing him back toward the bedrolls, sweetly laid together on the ground.

Arthur’s hard hands wrench the shirt down his arms, pulling it off John like it’s offensive to him, and wrestle his jeans down his legs. Arthur drops to his knees in the dirt to get them all the way off with John’s socks and boots. He leaves harsh bitemarks on John’s hip and the meat of his thigh in trade.

Finally, John’s naked, standing in the firelight, burning up from the inside out, looking down at Arthur. He feels stupid, drunk, cut loose from his good sense. But Arthur’s right here, strong-handed, pulling him down to the ground. Laying him out and crushing him down into the bedrolls. John just has to trust him, be good, and Arthur will take care of him. 

Arthur catches the sides of John’s burning face in his hands. He looks John over feverishly before kissing him messily. John takes it open-mouthed, sucking on Arthur’s tongue.

“Fuck,” Arthur says when he’s done, “there’s my boy. You gonna give it to me?” He rolls his hips in, denim scratching over John’s skin, cock hard against John’s inner thigh. John wonders wildly if he’s making a mess of his drawers how John’s been doing for days. He’d pray for that too.

“Yeah,” John chokes out, pulling Arthur’s shirt up his belly until Arthur takes it off. “Whatever you want.”

"This is what I want," Arthur tells him, pressing in, forcing John's legs back so Arthur can hump roughly between his thighs, where all the skin is tender. "I'm gonna fuck you, son. You want that?"

Panting, John nods. It's been on his mind for weeks. Arthur's got a cock thick enough to break somebody, and long enough that it rubs John raw-feeling deep inside. He's been without it for so long that just the thought of it has him fighting shaky-fingered with the fastening on Arthur's jeans. Arthur kisses him while he does it, making it hard to focus. But he gets there, feeling the damp front of Arthur's drawers, the swelling curve of Arthur's cock.

"Fuck," he says into Arthur's mouth, and he hasn't even touched Arthur's skin yet. 

"Get it, boy," Arthur replies, helping John get his jeans and drawers down his thighs. His cock lands hot on John's hip, just as big as John's been dreaming about. John gets his hand around it, grateful for the feeling of skin, the promise of a fuck finally. 

They kiss, John working Arthur's cock, Arthur's hand moving on the bedroll beside John's head. It comes back to rest against John's cheek holding a metal tin. 

It looks almost the same as one of the ones Arthur keeps his medical salve in, probably was one at one time. But this one isn't nearly as beat up, and what's inside doesn't smell of any kind of healing balm. It's the grease Arthur gets from somewhere. It doesn't look like much, but the sight of it, thick and white with finger drag marks, has John shuddering in anticipation. 

Arthur adds two more drag marks in it, scooping out a healthy amount, thumb working it over his knuckles.

"Knees up," he says, although John's already spreading them. He'd do just about anything right now to get Arthur's cock inside him.

Most times, Arthur likes it drier and rougher than John does, quick to go to two or three fingers. John's taken it happily, and would have it like that now, but Arthur just pushes with his knuckle first, going nowhere fast. John's asshole flexes against Arthur, but there's not enough to tighten up on. 

"You can-" John squirms. It feels good, but it's nothing compared to what John wants.

"Shh." Arthur switches to his other finger, testing John with his middle knuckle. "Let me. Touch my cock. Get your fingers wet."

The grease is there, but John sucks his fingers instead, which is the better choice because seeing it makes Arthur grunt and slip a finger into John. 

John closes his eyes and opens his mouth. He fists Arthur's cock as best he can while focusing on Arthur finger moving in and out of him. Arthur's got thick fingers, but it isn't until he gives John a second that John really feels it. Arthur strokes and spreads, pulling up on John's hole until it stings. 

Arthur kisses his cheek, as sweet as his fingers inside John are rough. "You like playing with my cock, son?"

"‘Course," John says, breathless.

"As much as you like my fingers?" Arthur asks, nailing John with a hard, twisting thrust.

John makes a noise, sweat or a tear sliding down his temple. His free hand finds the front of Arthur's shirt, making a fist. 

"Please," he says, trying to move against Arthur's fingers. "Please, please."

Arthur takes his fingers away, but gives John a brutal, bruising kiss instead.

"Be good for me," he demands, flipping John by the hips. John lands clumsily on his belly, but he's beyond caring. He shoves up into Arthur's hands, wants to fuck on his knees so Arthur can give it to him hard. He drops his head instead, because it's swimming to much to hold up. 

Arthur pushes the tip of his cock against John's hole, softly, steadily, until it parts. Arthur eases back out, in again to the shaft, then out again.

"Ah, Jesus," he moans. "Thank fuck for this mornin', or I'd be makin' a mess right," he touches his thumb to where his cock is forcing John's asshole open, "here."

John’s whole body tightens. He can feel how his asshole is pulling at Arthur’s cock. But Arthur’s holding his hips, even has his boots laid over John’s calves so John can’t go anywhere. 

It doesn’t matter though, because Arthur pushes in, slow but in all the way with a long flex of his hips.

“Oh, yeah,” he groans when he’s all the way in, balls tight to John’s body. “That’s it.” He pulls out and thrusts back in like that again, easing into it, spreading the grease between them.

“Arthur,” John begs in the small, needy, desperate voice that’s only place is here with Arthur.

“Yeah,” Arthur says, deep, paternal, pulling his cock out just so he can shove it right back in.

John moans, voice cracking, one knee skidding into the dirt. He fumbles under his belly to tug on his cock a couple of times before he has to put his knuckles into the bedroll and hold on.

“Got you,” Arthur says, chuckling as he picks up a snapping rhythm. But John doesn’t care about the teasing, not when Arthur’s hips are beating against his like this, steady and hard. Arthur’s hitting it just right, how no one else has ever given it to John. John’s already sweating, toes curling, guts cramping. Waiting does this to him, every time. 

Arthur bends over him, his chest hot on John’s back, mouth hot against John’s nape, hand hot on John’s leaking cock.

“C’mon, boy,” he says into John’s hair, “give it up. I want it. M’right here.”

John squeezes his eye shut tight, thighs shaking. He wants to last longer, but he’s been waiting so long and it’s too much and Arthur said he could. He shoots hard twice into the dirt, then fills Arthur’s tight hand with come, whimpering the whole time.

“My boy,” Arthur moans raw-voiced against his ear before he kisses it. “Y’gonna choke it right outta me.”

Arthur’s still fucking him, deep, jabbing thrusts. John shakes, sagging under Arthur so the rhythm goes strange, his hole tight and sore. Arthur grunts, working harder at it. 

“Y’not done yet,” Arthur coaxes, pulling at John’s hips. “Make it good for me.”

John’s mind is clouding over, but he manages to lift his hips and hold them steady so Arthur has something good to push against. He gets a firm kiss on the nape as thanks before Arthur straightens up again, hands on John’s hips, holding him still for the fuck Arthur’s giving him.

The pace is burning and John’s so dumb from his orgasm, but he stays where Arthur’s got him because Arthur’s making sounds from his chest, deep and satisfied and John doesn’t want to hear anything else in all his days. He presses his face to the bedroll to muffle the sounds coming out of him so he can hear Arthur better.

“Oh, fuck,” Arthur groans as he comes, thrusts rattling John. “Take it, fuck, boy, take it.”

It’s wetter then, easier for Arthur to rabbit into John’s hole. Arthur doesn’t pull out, how he does sometimes, so he can dirty John up how he likes. He stays deep in John as he comes, pumping hard, groaning until he doesn’t have more to give. John trembles, mindless, taking it.

Arthur catches his breath in a sigh, starting to roll his hips instead of fucking, using John’s body to soothe out the last of his orgasm. He bends again, one hand on next to John’s head, one on John’s belly. He kisses John’s ear, his jaw, his nape again, gentle-mouthed. 

When he eases out, John aches. The empty feeling is stinging and slippery, but even that barely breaks through to John. He slumps onto the bedroll, knees out, face down. The bedroll under his face is wet, tears and sweat and saliva. His breath is coming out of him like a skipping stone goes over water. His hands don’t work. He only thinks he’s alive because he can feel and hear the hectic rush of blood in his belly and throat and temples.

Strong hands turn his face so he can see the stars, Arthur among them. He doesn’t have the energy to react. Arthur strokes his wet face tenderly, and faintly, through the babbling brook in his ears, he can hear Arthur. Soft-talking him, saying, _Good boy, you did good, good boy, honey, darlin’._

**Author's Note:**

> I have a tumblr here: [crushcandles](https://crushcandles.tumblr.com/), where I remain sad and thirsty over Arthur Morgan.


End file.
